Page 21 of Whispers at Dusk
He laughed. Her Viking had learned English well, and he also had quite a sense of humor.
“Trust me! Oh, no, no, no! You would not have liked me much in life. Of those I meet, some stay to right a wrong, to help descendants, or for a reason they discover at some point. I believe I stayed to learn, and it has been a journey that has given me great wisdom, so I am grateful. Oh! Not to mention all the languages I speak—or could speak with people were they to hear me—and at least understand.”
“Well, sir, you are a most admirable ghost,” she assured him.
He shook his head. “But I haven’t seen who is doing this!” He frowned suddenly. “Maybe...”
“What is it?”
“Well, as I was telling you, I was in town. I do quite enjoy the modern sports bar—watching games and pretending I am imbibing fine ale. I was at Brager’s a night or so ago and there was one of those fellows who watched pretty girls there and he was quite deep in his cups at the bar. He kept orderingBloody Marys. Each time the barkeep would serve him, the fellow complimented him, but told him that sadly, no matter how good, they were never as good as the real thing. A Bloody Mary, I understand, is vodka and tomato juice and whatever else hot stuff someone may like...but the real thing? A woman named Mary—who is bloody?”
“Drinking the blood of aMary, or a woman, perhaps,” Della said. “Orm, could you describe this man for me?”
“He may have been nothing but a blithering drunk!” Orm warned.
“But it’s all we’ve got,” she told him. “All we have now. Our technical departments from several countries are researching the DNA they’ve found—but so far, we have no hits. And we have nothing but bodies in the woods. If you could describe this man...”
“Once, I could draw!” Orm said. “Now...well, I can muss the dirt up a bit.”
“If you tell me, I can do something of a sketch. I’m not much of an artist, but if you tell me everything you remember, I can tell a sketch artist. The sketch artist can do something with whatever I can come up with.”
Orm nodded gravely. “Lean, but wiry, and not skinny, just lean, and solid. His face...no hair, no whiskers. Eyes...light. Perhaps blue or green. Shaggy brown hair. I believe that he appeared to be in his mid-twenties—thirty, tops. Silly fellow. Ah, yes! He talked aboutthe dig. I believe archaeologists are here, researching and digging up an old settlement not far from town. He was an Englishman, I believe. The dig is made up of scientists from many countries, but this fellow... I believe his accent was English. Straight nose, slightly pointed chin, quick, good smile. I think he appeared fine to the women who were about.”
Della had drawn out a pen and pad and done her best to sketch a face. She also wrote down what Orm told her.
She smiled at him. “Well, we may just question a drunk, but then again...we have no other leads, and I am grateful for this.”
He looked at her sketch. “Hmm. You’re right. You’re not an artist.”
“But I am a good agent and investigator,” she assured him.
He grinned and indicated the break in the trees. “I have no doubt. But now, I believe your very tall man, Special Agent Mason Carter, is looking for you, perhaps growing a bit concerned.”
“Yes, I’m anxious for him to meet you, but...”
“The others down there—they wouldn’t see me. They’d want you sent back to the United States immediately for psychiatric care.”
Della laughed. “Something like that. But thank you. And I do hope to see you again. We will need and be grateful for your help.”
He nodded somberly then. “To help is sweetness for my soul,” he assured her. “If you are seeking me and do not find me, don’t worry. I will find you.”
He disappeared into the trees, and Della hurried on down to join the others.
“Anything?” Mason asked.
She gave him a smile, indicating she had something—but just for him.
“Where are we here?” she asked quietly, looking at the others. Then she apologized quickly in French for assuming they all spoke English. Lapierre laughed and assured her he was quite adept at English.
“My English friend speaks French, just as I speak English. We are but a hop across the channel from each other and have worked together before,” Lapierre told her.
“Oh, well, that’s...excellent,” Mason said. He grimaced. “I can order coffee, a beer, and find the men’s room in a few languages. Oh, and ask if others happen to speak English, say good morning, please, and thank-you.”
“All appreciated!” Lapierre said.
“And,” Wilhelm said, trying to offer a weak smile, “my English and French friends, do not mock our American friends. They speak a bit of my language, which is not at all common!”
They all grinned briefly, but their smiles faded as they watched the morgue attendants packing up to leave. Then Wilhelm cleared his throat and said, “We should get to headquarters. Our Interpol agent will meet us there. And...now we have another dead woman, as I said, one of our own, Ingrid McDonald.”
